i am it is me
by a.lakewood
Summary: "Someday you're going to see the difference. You didn't have a choice, it made you do those things. It wasn't you."


Stiles jerks awake just as he's starting to drift off, rolls over beneath the gentle weight of the blankets piled over him. It's almost been a week since- he hasn't let himself fall asleep and, no matter what he does, he can't get warm.

Rubbing his cheek soothingly against his pillow, Stiles catches the clean scent of the cotton and tries to anchor himself to reality. He blinks against the brightness of his room as he stares at the blank blue span of his wall where his bed is pushed up against it, spots where adhesive residue remains by the way fuzz clings to the paint and casts tiny shadows.

A creak in the hall outside his closed door makes his heartbeat trip over itself and he barely registers the knock with how loud his pulse is pounding in his ears. The door slowly swings open with a faint squeak from the hinges, but Stiles doesn't turn to see his father, who's probably just making his standard stop in to let Stiles know he's headed off to work or the grocery store.

But there's a long silence before a throat clears. "Stiles?" a familiar voice questions quietly, uncertainly, most definitely not his dad. "Stiles, are you awake?"

Stiles fights against releasing the sigh trapped in his lungs, debates rolling over to face Derek because there's no way Derek doesn't hear the unsteady fluctuations of his heart rate. He's grateful that Derek's giving him the option of ignoring him, but Stiles doesn't know if acknowledging his presence with get Derek to leave sooner or not. He hasn't seen anyone except his dad since- He doesn't want to do this now, wouldn't mind putting it off forever, but he can feel Derek's gaze on him like a physical touch and it's heavy and sad. Stiles shifts under his blankets, no sheet because he learned his lesson when he got caught in the thin material and nearly had a panic attack at the feeling of being trapped and unable to get loose.

Derek moves closer, a few measured steps that lead him to a point a couple of feet away from the edge of Stiles' bed. "Your father let me in," he says, meeting and holding Stiles' gaze. He looks just as exhausted as Stiles feels, bruise-like shadows under his eyes, face paler than Stiles remembers.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asks when it seems like Derek isn't going to say anything else. His voice is rough with disuse; he's barely given more than one word answers or responses in the few brief conversations he's had with his dad.

"I just wanted to see how you were doing after- after everything. Make sure you're okay."

Stiles grinds his teeth, huffs a breath through his nose that's just shy of a scoff as he regards Derek who looks entirely too serious and attentive, obvious concern in his somber eyes. "I'm _awesome_," Stiles says bitterly with a smirk.

Derek doesn't roll his eyes, but Stiles suspects it's a near thing. "Stiles," Derek sighs, taking another step forward.

"I just- I want to be left alone. Leave. Please." Stiles makes to roll back over towards the wall, but Derek's hand on his shoulder stops him.

"Nobody's seen you in days. We're worried." Derek's kneeling beside the bed now, fingers curled almost tenderly around the bony joint, heat from his palm seeping through the thin fabric of Stiles' tee.

"You shouldn't be. Not- not after I- after what I did." He buries his face in his pillow, feels the way the fissures deep in his chest – around his heart, his soul – tense and threaten to crumble even more. He feels broken, irreparable. He might be the only one knocking around in his head now, but the memories are still there, vivid and unyielding, and he's going to carry this darkness around forever, won't ever be able to escape it.

"It wasn't you," Derek says insistently, fingers clenching almost painfully. "_It wasn't you._"

Stiles curls in on himself, tries to dislodge Derek's hand, but he's not letting go. "But it _was_," he whispers. "It was me. I remember everything."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Maybe, maybe not," he says, not wanting to argue, feeling the pressure of an oncoming headache behind his eyes. "Doesn't change the fact that people are _dead_ because of me."

"It was the nogitsune, Stiles, not you."

Stiles shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut tight. "You don't understand: it was me. There wasn't a difference, not really. _I am it is me._"

Derek's silent for a long stretch of minutes, fingers relaxed, hand unmoving, the only sound between them Derek's slow, even breaths. "But it's not," he finally says. "Not anymore."

"Doesn't change anything," Stiles repeats with a slight shrug.

Derek's hand shifts, slides up Stiles' neck, grasps it loosely. "Someday," Derek starts, thumb grazing over the knob of vertebra, "someday you're going to see the difference. You didn't have a choice, it made you do those things. _It wasn't you._"

Stiles doesn't say anything, keeps his eyes closed. Part of him wishes Derek would just leave him be, but another smaller part of him wants nothing more than for Derek to stay, warmth of his touch on Stiles' skin the best kind of physical anchor to what is real. He thinks, maybe, with that touch he could finally close his eyes and find a couple of hours of sleep. Derek's presence won't chase away the nightmares made up of his memories, but it keeps some of his fear at bay, makes him feel less alone. But he can't ask that of Derek, not after he- it- _they_ nearly killed him. Nearly killed everyone he cares about. Stiles won't be able to forgive himself anytime soon if ever. And Derek shouldn't, either. None of them should.

With a quiet rasp of denim and creak of leather, Derek stands, his touch withdrawing, sudden absence of warmth making Stiles shiver. "Okay," Derek says, voice flat, defeated. "I guess- I guess I'll go, then. Just remember that we're here. Scott, Lydia, Allison, Isaac... me. Your dad and Melissa. We're all here, whatever you need. We're not gonna give up on you."

Stiles' eyes start to burn behind his closed lids. Derek's compassion is unexpected somehow, even after everything he's said and done. Stiles doesn't feel like he deserves it. He nods anyway.

"Try and get some sleep. Your dad's worried about you." Still or again, it doesn't need to be said. "I'll see you later."

Stiles listens to Derek leave, hears the door close, the floorboards in the hall creak, then distantly, the front door opens and closes, too. After a moment the engine of a car starts outside his window, grows faint and disappears. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, curls up tighter underneath his pile of blankets that do nothing to make him feel warm, and doesn't sleep.


End file.
